


Falling into reality

by InBlackSneakers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Philosophy, Psychology, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:57:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10555162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InBlackSneakers/pseuds/InBlackSneakers
Summary: What is life? Life is a thread that breaks off at any time. But why does it break off? Perhaps the person decides when to take the scissors. maybe...





	

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Falling into reality](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/288246) by В черных Кедах. 



Have you ever fallen? Did you stretch your hand in the hope that a person can help? But you just throw and go. You continue to fall into the void, realizing that people do not know how to sympathize. You choke on their lies and hypocrisy. You fall where you stay alone, where your fears dominate. And people will forget about you. They always do that.  
Perhaps you can find someone who will fall with you. Will cover you with your back, believe in you, and also hug you when you are sad ...

Jim opens his eyes again looking around the room. The same sofa, the same table on which the laptop is resting, the same closet, and in it neatly weighs his clothes. He throws off the blanket, gets out of bed and heads to his wardrobe. It seems that it's time to visit Sherlock.

Night. A gentle breeze rushes the branches of trees. The dark streets of London are lit by a weak warm light. Small lights sparkle in lonely apartments. Some slowly go out, while others light up with the light of cold stars. Lanterns, like the moon, illuminate the roads of the night city. The mist covers the city with a gray haze. It seems that it was November.  
The dark figure of James Moriarty slowly walks along Baker Street. On the sidewalk flooded with moonlight, the wind chases the withered autumn foliage. Approaching the treasured door with a gold engraving "221b", he silently whispered something and touched it with his knuckles.  
A quiet knock is heard in an empty apartment at first glance. The door with a creak opens the view of the owner of the room - Sherlock Holmes.  
He is sleepy, with curly curls, gazing narrowly at the criminal adviser. The detective slowly examines the unexpected night visitor: tousled hair, bruises under the eyes from lack of sleep, sparks in the iris of the color of bitter chocolate and an unchanging suit from Westwood.  
Jim shambles awkwardly on the spot under Sherlock's gaze, like a small child who broke his parents' favorite vase. James shrinks and waits for Sherlock to reach out. Waiting until it is accepted. He stretches out his hand knowing that now he will be driven away, thrown out like a little puppy. The Irishman shudders as Holmes shakes his outstretched palm, twisting his fingers.

_What is life? Life is a thread that breaks off at any time. But why does it break off? Perhaps the person decides when to take the scissors. Maybe..._

James slowly enters the apartment. To discern anything is impossible - the curtains are twisted, preventing the light of street lamps from entering the room. 

"Hello," Sherlock says, coming from behind, "I know why you came." 

"I lost in my own game." - Jim looks away and immediately blushes, because the detective is too close. But, perhaps, these are only defects of lack of sleep? Maybe next to him there is no one? Oh, it's only a dream so? 

"I'm not sure that you lost," Holmes takes Moriarty's palm again, and leads to the stairs to the second floor. No, it's not a dream.  
Steps softly creak under the weight of two bodies. One of them does not stand up and condemns Napoleon's crime to fall. Shame. That's what James feels when Sherlock takes him in his arms and continues walking toward the bedroom. 

The window is open, letting the fresh night air into the room. The night sky, like the canvas of Vincent Van Gogh, like a fine brush neatly draws a wide variety of elements. Whether it's buildings or cars - everything is covered in a black layer. 

Cold stars are scattered somewhere in the sky, Big Ben is still glowing with gold, there is not a soul in the street. Emptiness. People seemed to disappear. Around silence. Perhaps Jim would be happy to sit here a little longer. I would listen to a steady rain, watch the neon signs that continue to burn in various colors: red-orange with shades of gold or violet with blue and azure admixtures. 

The light of the moon, covered by an autumn mist, gently covers the room with a dull veil. Sherlock sighed and headed for the bed, laying Jim and laying down beside him. Holmes's hair flew over the pillow, gray-blue eyes gaze steadily into the ceiling. Moriarty closes her eyes and starts to breathe. Breathe the smell of bitter coffee, the smell of chocolate with fresh mint. Breathe reality. On the lips a smile, eyelashes tremble. 

Does he remember his childhood? What can not be returned, something that is difficult to remember. Does he remember how he drank hot chocolate in the morning, burning his throat? Of course he remembers. Does she remember the warm plaid of her mother, whom she covered in a dream? Oh, of course he does! 

_What is death? Death is the disappearance of what a person loves. What no one can return. Death is also salvation. Salvation for those who have long wanted to take scissors and break this damned thread!_

A smile falls from James's face. Does he remember death? Is this forgotten? Oh no.  
"They died. They do not return "- a phrase pops up in the dark top of Jim, and he realizes that he was left alone.  
Chocolate has long since cooled. Plaid crumpled and lying around in the chair. The genius of the underworld, leave Ireland, here you do not shine.  
But Jim does not want to leave this house, where there are memories, where his childhood remains. Jim must leave, closing his eyes. 

Moriarty's thoughts stretch Holmes's cold fingers, washing the salty paths of tears. The eyes of the detective hide the stars, galaxies and loneliness. He looks at the criminal adviser with a misunderstanding. 

"Hey, is it okay?" - misunderstanding is replaced by a light anxiety, so unusual to Sherlock. 

"You are real? It's just a dream, is not it?" - Compresses the blanket. 

"Jim, are you an idiot?" - Detective takes his hand off the cheek of the evil genius, taking him by the shoulders, - Calm down, okay? 

Moriarty does not answer. There is no point in this, a genius understands him. He understands every sigh, every look. There is no love between them, there is no hatred between them. Between them only chemistry. 

James Moriarty always fell alone. He did not seek others, he did not cling to them, as for a single salvation. He did not get lost in his dreams. Jim was just looking for the same crazy person.  
It seems Sherlock Holmes could have fallen with him. 

**Author's Note:**

> It's just a translation of my Russian fanfic. So, yes.


End file.
